


The Rescuers

by Autumn_Llleaves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-02 18:31:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4070206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autumn_Llleaves/pseuds/Autumn_Llleaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Sandor who truly had to rescue the little bird, but the Halfman comes first. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rescuers

Sandor readied his sword as he crept closer to the Gates of the Moon. The castle has been broken into by starving smallfolk, forcing the rightful owner ( _bah, as if the Mockingbird has any right to anything_ ) to retreat with his nearest and dearest ( _indeed_!) into three or four rooms on the ground floor of the smallest building.

Septon Meribald told him everything he needed to know. Firstly and most importantly, the old man shocked him with the news that Baelish's bastard daughter Alayne Stone is in truth Sansa Stark in disguise.

Thanks to Sandor's feverish ravings, his feelings for the little bird weren't much of a secret anymore. Meribald wouldn't have given him hope, unless he was iron certain.

The little bird, it seemed, had the worst luck imaginable. First Joffrey, then the dwarf, now Littlefinger. _And quite soon – Sandor Clegane_. But unlike her previous captors, he'd let her go. Find a safe place for her and let her go. Return to the Quiet Isle and spend the rest of his life a hermit.

It would be so bloody hard, of course. Leaving her. It nearly tore him apart the first time. _She is pure and innocent, not a hundred Littlefingers can soil it. You don't deserve to lie at her feet._

She'd thank him for rescuing her, at least. He'd have the last memory of her, of her grateful smile and sweet, if meaningless, chirping.

 _She must be a grown woman now. Taller and more graceful…_ the former Hound swallowed. It was getting more and more difficult to think of letting her go. _Take her out of the damned castle and slice Littlefinger to shreds, then think of the next steps._

As he had almost approached the castle gates, suddenly the sky seemed to light itself aflame. _Bugger it all! Not again!_ he thought frantically, recoiling in fear despite himself. This fire wasn't green, however. It was naturally red. _Like her hair_.

Entranced and unable to move further, Sandor watched a gigantic white dragon descending in circles from the sky. As it hovered above the castle wall and stopped shooting fire, he urged himself to come closer.

"Where is Littlefinger?" a voice yelled in the stunned silence that followed. Sandor cringed as he recognized it. It was the dwarf. As he was directly underneath the wall and started to cautiously climb it, he spotted the damned Lannister halfman near the dragon.

The smallfolk obviously didn't want to argue with a dragonrider. Sandor looked on as Baelish was brought before Tyrion. They even took the trouble to bind him.

"I've done nothing wrong!" Baelish stuttered, vainly trying to sound firm. "I have helped these people. I have… have…"

"Where is my wife?" Tyrion snapped, cutting short his wails. "Varys says you keep her. _Where is she_?!"

Sandor halted in his ascent. Damn, it was all over again. The valiant dwarf coming to the rescue first.

"Your wife? How would I know? I… I…"

"Oh, you would know. If you tell me right now, I can promise you a quick and easy death. If not…" Tyrion pointed to the dragon. "You'll be slowly roasted, like a chicken, first one side, then another…"

Hearing it, Sandor winced. Of course, no one deserved such a fate more than Baelish, but still it was horrible to hear. Roasted! His own ugliest nightmare since childhood.

"She's heeeere," Littlefinger cried, finally losing his fake bravado. "She's caaalled Alaaaayne Stoooone!"

As the people gathered around rushed down to fetch her, Sandor quickly went down and entered the castle through the opened gate – lots of inhabitants had fled from the dragon.

With a hood hiding his face, he was able to mix himself with the crowd, bending down like a cripple to disguise his singular height. Just in time. The little bird, slender and serene and more beautiful than ever before, albeit with her hair dyed darkish brown for some reason, walked out of her hiding place as the dragon with his rider descended to meet her. 

"My lord husband," she curtsied politely, but her tone betrayed her surprise. Indeed, everyone in Westeros up to this moment had thought Tyrion Lannister dead, but the wretched dwarf had apparently snaked his way out and to triumph once more.

"Sansa, my dear," the Halfman smiled broadly, kissing her hand (Sandor felt his blood nearly boil at the sight). "I was afraid these rebels have hurt you."

"No, my lord, I am fine," she replied, staring at the dragon incredulously. With some satisfaction Sandor noted her voice sounded rather cold. _She is not_ very  _glad to see him, at least..._

"Did Littlefinger do any... _lasting damage_  to you?" Tyrion asked, leading her towards the enormous beast. "Come closer, don't be afraid – Viserion's trained."

The little bird carefully touched the dragon's neck, then shook her head in response to her husband's question. The dwarf nodded, and, pointing at Littlefinger, commanded:

" _Dracarys._ "

White flame burst from the dragon's mouth, and before Sandor could blink he saw, horror-struck, a heap of black ash where the prisoner was standing. Pretty much everyone cried from fear. Sansa gasped.

"You're serving the Dragon Queen," she whispered.

"True," Tyrion said. "But she is merciful. She's willing to return the North and Winterfell to you."

"I don't want it, thank you," the little bird said unexpectedly.  _What has happened to you? I know you have been dreaming of your bloody home since your father's head went off._

"Don't tell me,  _my loving wife,_ that you want to stay at Casterly Rock?" the dwarf chuckled.

"Not that either. Bran's alive, he can get Winterfell. I take it you too wish to annul our marriage?"

_Annul? Little bird, you're still the same hopeful dreamer. A marriage can only be annulled if it wasn't consummated or if one of the partners had in fact a living spouse. And the dwarf's little first wife was slaughtered by his father's guards once they were completely done with her._

But Sandor was in for a shock, as the dwarf agreed:

"Of course, my dear. It was an idiocy from the beginning. Do you already have someone else in mind? Varys's agents told us you're almost engaged to Lord Hardying."

"It was Baelish's doing," Sansa scowled. "No, Tyrion, I think I want to go to the septry."

Whatever Sandor had expected, it wasn't that. The little bird, who used to swoon over any handsome knight, with her Tully way of valuing family before anything else – to the septry? Besides, how in the world would they get the annulment? Or was Daenerys Targaryen going to follow in her ancestors' footsteps by quarrelling with the High Septon, declaring any marriage she didn't fancy annulled?

Tyrion seemed to be just as astonished as him:

"Sansa! Whatever put such an idea into your head? I know you haven't exactly been around the men of your dreams, but you're still so young. And with independence and power, you will be able to choose your true husband yourself, and no one will dare to oppose you. The world doesn't only consist of Lannisters and Baelishes, you know."

"I've thought it over, my lord. I want to go to the septry," she insisted. "Bran is all but betrothed to Howland Reed's daughter, and Rickon's alive and well too. There is no shortage of heirs."

Tyrion shrugged:

"It's for you to decide, but still I would doubt it's the best way. Well, let us address the smallfolk then. Queen Daenerys is coming in a few days with two more dragons, an army of Essosi and, which is far more important these days, with a lot of  _food_."

Sandor made sure the hood hid his face completely as Tyrion climbed on dragonback again and made a short speech about the Dragon Queen coming back. He emphasized especially that her ships are bringing many food supplies, and the smallfolk was impressed. The hungry people would have been ready to declare for the Great Other, had he appeared and promised to feed them.

The little bird stood by the dragon's side, staring blankly into nothingness, like a marble statue.

 _What would I give to comfort her right now!_ Sandor thought grimly. _As if I ever could do that, comfort anyone. Most likely, if she sees me, she'll die of fright. Damn it all, why does the Halfman always come to the rescue before me?_

She must have felt his gaze, as she startled him by stepping in his direction and addressing him:

"I haven't seen you in the castle, my lord. Are you of the Faith?"

Her voice – her melodious voice – speaking to  _him_. Sandor could have listened to it forever. He forced himself to look away from the blue of her eyes and give her a curt nod.

"A silent brother," she realized.

"What's that?" Tyrion looked over.

"I want to ask this brother about some important matter," Sansa said, her voice ringing somewhat strangely. _What now, little bird? Can't you what a bloody torture it is for me? If you want to go to the septry, surely there is at least one septa around to instruct you. By the way, you yourself called me a silent brother!_

Tyrion, conversing with some of the rebels' leaders, didn't pay much attention to the discrepancy. Sansa walked a little away from the crowd, urging Sandor to follow.

"T-tell me, please," she whispered, her icy demeanor dropping and revealing the shy girl she was. "Are you from the Quiet Isle?"

He acknowledged it with another nod, trying not to notice how her lips moved when she spoke.  _Sansa, what are you getting at?_ _  
_

"Oh. Then you must have – must have seen the Hound's last hours... You know – the one – from the Kingsguard," she desperately struggled for words as a crimson blush spread on her cheeks.

Sandor was so astonished now he barely remembered to nod yet once more. Why was she inquiring about him?

Her breath seemed to halt for a moment, then she asked quietly, looking resigned:

"If you are not – otherwise occupied – mayhaps you could show me where he was buried?"

She seemed to take his stillness for incomprehension, and she hurried forth:

"I-mean-Lady-Brienne-told-me-the-helm-was-taken-away-but-you-perhaps-might-remember-the-place-of-the-grave..."

 _Little bird, what is this supposed to mean?_ Sandor thought, shaking his head. Sansa sighed deeply:

"Oh, I understand. You must be going further east – a mission to Essos, I believe? But if you could – just – it's not like you are breaking your vow – it's repeating, not speaking in the strict sense – tell me – about his last moments – last words?"

Her whole form was shivering, her lovely eyes were filled with unshed tears and – grief? Longing? _Hope_? The former Hound stared at the little bird, bewildered by what he saw in her face, then daring to actually  _believe_ it... A strange lightheadedness overcame him, his heart fluttering in his chest, and took him a few seconds to realize  _this_ was the happiness everyone talks of. The unsuspecting girl still looked at him expectantly and sadly, and Sandor had to fight back the sudden urge to _laugh._

"His last words up to this moment were –  _why must the thrice-damned dwarf always come first to rescue the little bird?_ "

As she tried to take in what was happening, he finally threw back the hood and laughed genuinely and heartily for the first time in roughly twenty-five years. Moments later, Sansa caught his large hands in her soft and warm ones, pressing them to her, and her silvery laughter joined in with his.

They still had very much to do in the future. Sandor was going to have the story out of her, about how she ended up with dyed hair and Littlefinger and how she would manage to end her wedlock with the dwarf. He would tell her his story too – she'd be ever so pleased her sister ( _the wolf-bitch!)_ had survived. They would need to rebuild her castle and feed her lands during the remaining (months, years?) of winter. Keep each other warm as well – Sandor already had thought up quite a lot of ways to do so.

But right now they were content to stand in a deserted part of the yard, half-laughing, half-crying in the biting wind, holding each other's hands and just _looking_ at each other, and both felt summer warmth spreading between them.


End file.
